Sermons

+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Every time I read that passage from Matthew’s Gospel I wonder if the disciples’ response—“Yes, we understood all that!”—was actually true or not. My hunch is that they were lying, because they were lost but too proud to admit it, though maybe that’s just my projection. They must have eventually come to understand, though, because they did even more than “sell all they had” for the pearl of great price; all but John literally died for the Gospel, and he was exiled for it.
But they can be forgiven if they were incapable of understanding, if not for lying about it, because there is an awful lot going on in these quickfire parables. Unlike the Gospel lessons from last week and the week before, Jesus does not explain them to the disciples later. A lot of modern biblical scholars will suggest that here Matthew is acting as a redactor, following the more fully fleshed out parables with other sayings of Jesus which he didn’t know where to place as a sort of addendum. I have a suspicion, though, that Jesus was intentionally using rhetorical parallelism to bring his first period of teaching to a close, to punctuate it. The time is growing short, and he takes the opportunity to slip in some critical instruction the point of which the disciples would only later come to grasp. We do get more parables later in Matthew’s Gospel, but there is a shift in the narrative here at the end of chapter 13. The story moves to Herod killing John the Baptist and Jesus performing miracles, a decisive shift in his ministry which brings him ever closer to Calvary.
So, enough about rhetoric and narrative structure. What is the point he’s making? Well, I think it’s actually at least two points.
First: the Kingdom is a valuable treasure. Notice what the real estate speculator and the pearl merchant do. They don’t take out a bank loan at a favorable interest rate. They don’t leverage some of their investments. They sell everything that they have. What if it’s a fake pearl or fools’ gold? This is not a wise investment! But they have faith, and they will have the Kingdom. The apostles were tortured and killed, and for what? To the world it looked like folly. They were killed all the day long, regarded as sheep to be slaughtered. But Paul assures us in today’s Epistle, that they were more than conquerors, because nothing could separate them (nothing can separate us) from God’s love.
The second point, which I think the parables of the mustard seed and the leaven highlight, is that a small and unassuming faith not only leads to big things, but to life sustaining gifts, not just for the one with that little bit of faith, but for all whom we share this pilgrim journey. The birds of the air find their home in the great shrub grown from the tiny seed. And whether or not you like mustard (I love it!) it was important and valuable in the ancient world. It’s wasn’t limited to a little French’s yellow on your hot dog or some Grey Poupon in your vinaigrette. Mustard shows up in twelve-thousand year old seed cakes in Syria and in Egyptian tombs. It was easier to get than salt or pepper, and it masked the taste of meat that had gone a little off (which was most meat in the ancient world).
Most striking to me, though, was something I found in one of my research rabbit holes this week. The Talmud, the collection of Jewish Oral History finalized in the Late Classical and Early Medieval periods contains material stretching back to before Jesus’ time. In that tradition’s version of Abraham’s hospitality (depicted in that icon), guess what he and Sarah served the three angels… tongue in mustard sauce. It’s uncertain whether this particular story predates Jesus, that he would have heard it, but it’s possible, and perhaps part of the point is that the blessing of the Kingdom are so abundant that we should be ready at all times to share that bounty with others.
As for the bread-maker, don’t imagine a packet of Fleischmann’s yeast. She would have used a little lump of old, nasty fermented bread (like an ancient sourdough starter, but not as high-flown as the stuff used by hipster artisan bakers). And she’s mixing it into three measures of flour. That’s about 40 liters in volume or fifty pounds in weight. Once the leaven has done its work, the amount of bread would fill your bathtub three quarters of the way full. Too much bread for the woman. Might as well share.
So, the Kingdom is worth everything and it has the capacity to grow exponentially. Are we treating it that way. Are we refusing to invest all that we have (physically, spiritually, materially) and seeing what great things God can do? Well, we all are, myself included. I know I need to step out in faith more, put my trust in God more, place those things I hold most dear (my reputation, my comfort, my time, my treasure) on the line more readily than I do.
The good news is that every time I take a little step (in prayer, in action, in giving) the results are gratuitously generous in blessing. I promise this is not a prosperity Gospel, Joel Osteen style sermon. Those who fleece the sheep should go to prison for a while, and frequently they do. What I’m trying to say is that anything we dedicate to God in terms of time, talent, and treasure, through whatever means (via the church or on one’s own) is an act of faith. Only a mustard seed is required, but the more we dedicate our lives to Christ, the richer are the blessings of happiness and contentment in this life as we await the final reward which we’ll all share when the Kingdom comes in its fullness.
It is in that Kingdom where the hidden treasure will truly be found, where the pearl will be obtained, where we may dwell with the birds upon the branches of divine teaching, where we may eat the bread which will always satisfy. But even now, we may at times enjoy that life in spirit and in truth so long as our hope is set where it belongs. Having been instructed in the way of faith we are as scribes trained for the kingdom of heaven, being made wiser in householding than even Solomon himself. And we have been given even greater treasures. For, as Origen of Alexandria wrote:
One who is truly such a householder is both free and rich. He is rich because from the office of the scribe he has been made a disciple to the kingdom of heaven, in every word of the Old Testament and in all knowledge concerning the new teaching of Christ Jesus. He has these riches laid up in his own treasure house—in heaven, in which he stores his treasure as one who has been made a disciple to the kingdom of heaven. There neither moth consumes nor thieves break through and steal. For the one who has such treasures laid up in heaven, not one moth of inordinate passions can touch his spiritual and heavenly possessions.

+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.


I have always been intrigued by the clever and not-so-clever things people put on church signs. One I saw recently which I particularly liked was “Honk if you love Jesus; Text while driving if you want to meet him.” There is a particular theme that seems to end up on several church signs about this time of year, however, that makes me a bit uncomfortable. You’ve probably seen one or two of them yourselves. They’re the signs that make a connection between the heat we’re experiencing now and the presumed heat of hell. You’ll see signs that say something like “If you think it’s hot here…” or “This church is air-conditioned, hell isn’t.”
What makes me uncomfortable with this kind of sentiment is not the mention of hell. While in some circles I’d be considered a theological paleo-conservative for this, I very much believe that there is a final judgment and that some, even with full knowledge of the consequences, may ultimately choose perdition over an eternity in God’s presence. God loves us enough to give us free will, even if it means some will reject Him.
No, what makes me uncomfortable with these church signs is that there seems to me to be an implicit assumption about our knowledge of who makes the cut or not. This has been a problem Christianity has faced for centuries. Puritans took often believed that election or reprobation—or, to use the more modern terms of American evangelicalism, the saved and the unsaved—could be easily identified. Not only was this based on the presence or absence of good works, but, sadly, on things like wealth. Having a lot of money or property was reckoned a sign of election, and being poor was reckoned a sign that one was likely headed to hell.
This problem is still with us. Stay off social media when a controversial figure, particularly a politician, dies. You’ll frequently identify the assumption that one knew enough about God and His ways to identify who was going to heaven and who was going to hell.
I have even heard, believe it or not, of people going to funerals in which the minister said that the deceased had most certainly ended up in hell. Pastoral sensitivity aside, making so bold a claim about another’s eternal destination seems to suggest remarkable arrogance.
This morning’s gospel should serve as a warning to avoid this kind of speculation. The slaves approach their master and ask if they should pull the weeds out of the garden, a rather obvious thing to do, one should think. The master, however, is afraid that some of the wheat would be thrown out with the weeds, and instructs the slave to let them grow, leaving the separation for the reaper.
I had always thought it rather strange, not having a background in agriculture, that the weeds could not be distinguished from the wheat. I had always assumed a farmer could tell the difference. Having done a bit of research, though, I discovered that the weeds in question were likely lolium temulentum, or darnel, which indeed cannot be easily distinguished from wheat until very late in both plants’ maturation. So Jesus’ audience would have known the dangers of trying to pull up these weeds from a wheat field prematurely. Some of the crop would inevitably be lost.
And notice whom Jesus identifies as the reapers: they are the angels. They’re not us. They are not the clergy or the matriarchs and patriarchs of a parish church or the vestry or the General Convention of the Episcopal Church or any other human agent. The angels make the separation, not us.
It goes without saying that this should lead us to a degree of tolerance. I think it’s easy enough for most of us to avoid speculating out loud about a person’s ultimate destination, but I think our hearts have more trouble in this regard than we might expect. I have thought to say and very occasionally actually said to somebody those three horrible words that lie in wait, ready to pop out of our mouths when we’re angry: go to hell. Rarely do I really mean it literally, but sometimes, maybe deep down, I do. That’s a problem; that’s sin.
In a sermon on this very text, St. Augustine had this to say:
O you Christians, whose lives are good, you sigh and groan as being few among many, few among very many. The winter will pass away, the summer will come; lo! The harvest will soon be here. The angels will come who can make the separation, and who cannot make mistakes. … I tell you of a truth, my Beloved, even in these high seats there is both wheat, and tares, and among the laity there is wheat, and tares. Let the good tolerate the bad; let the bad change themselves, and imitate the good. Let us all, if it may be so, attain to God; let us all through His mercy escape the evil of this world. Let us seek after good days, for we are now in evil days; but in the evil days let us not blaspheme, that so we may be able to arrive at the good days.

Here that great father of the church not only tells us to withhold judgment—not knowing as well as the angels who might be a weed and who might be wheat—but he also warns us not to blaspheme. Blasphemy is irreverence, and it may take the form of us presuming to carry out the divine task of judgment ourselves. To presume to say somebody is going or has gone to hell, to take upon ourselves the authority to proclaim damnation, is perhaps the greatest blasphemy of all.
Let’s make a go, then, of withholding judgment, knowing that judgment is not our prerogative when it comes to eternal matters. In fact, let’s go one step further, by really trusting that God knows what he’s doing. We might be surprised on our own heavenly birthday, when we go to join the saints in light, when we see who’s there. They will have been changed, perfected, made into what God meant them to be, as will we. If we hadn’t got it be then, we will finally realize how wrong we were to condemn so quickly, but, thanks be to God, that that realization will not inhibit us, but will free us to live in that land where our sinful arrogance has been purged and we can live in perfect peace and unity.
+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I must be slow on the uptake, because it never occurred to me until this time through the lectionary cycle that the parable we just heard is self-referential. In fairness, it’s not obvious at first, since just like last week we skipped some verses. In the elided section, the disciples ask Jesus why he always speaks in parables, and he essentially says that it’s in order to hide the message from those unable to hear, just like how the seed can’t take root in the bad soil.
Now you can guess why we didn’t hear that part of the story. It seems harsh and unfair. When he finally explains the parable, it’s just to the disciples. The crowd has left, many more confused than when they arrived, and now Jesus and the disciples are alone in a boat.
It may seem harsh, but isn’t this just a natural human proclivity? If one isn’t prepared to hear something, one simply won’t. If you don’t have ears, it doesn’t matter how stirring the rhetoric is or how careful the logic of an argument. I once had somebody upset with me after a sermon until he realized that he took umbrage at something I said in the first clause of a sentence, stopped listening, and didn’t realize I was arguing for his point of view in the second clause. This was not somebody who had bad intentions, just somebody who had got in the habit of expecting always to hear either precisely what he wanted to hear rather than what was actually said. And we probably all fall victim to that foible from time to time.
So, this raises a difficulty, because is it not God that gives the ear ready to hear or who plows the field so that it can accept the seed? In other words, does God just make some people too stubborn to hear the Gospel. In other words, do we have to accept double predestination? I don’t know, I intuitively have trouble with that, but I’m not going to solve a five-hundred-year-old theological debate in the next five minutes.
My suspicion, in all events, is that maybe even the rockiest or weediest soil/soul may have some deeply buried system of groundwater or earthworms or something that can through disruption make it seed-ready. A strict Calvinist would disagree with me, but I’m not one so there you have my tentative, perhaps overly-hopeful, opinion.
The one thing that may lend some credence to my optimism is that the sower seems to spread the seed so injudiciously and Jesus certainly leaves an opening for those sitting by the sea of Galilee to reconsider their presumed lack of receptiveness. Why spread the seed, why tell the parable, if there weren’t reason to hope for that?
Now, I think the sower in the parable is certainly the Holy Spirit, but maybe it’s the evangelist, too, and we’re all called to be evangelists. So, perhaps we should be just as indiscriminate in how we broadcast the seed of faith as God is. One thing I’m relatively sure of is that none of us is as good at assessing whether or not another soul may be receptive as an experienced sower is at judging soil conditions, but the latter seemed prepared to lose a little of his seed in hopes of harvesting even in terrain that didn’t look promising.
And to push the agricultural metaphor one step further, I hope not into absurdity, God is not like the general store. He’s more like Monsanto, just not evil. He owns the seed. We’re more like tenant farmers. So if the landlord says “spread the seed willy-nilly”, who are we to argue?
In all events, the promise we get in this morning’s lesson from the Prophet Isaiah is that God’s word accomplishes the thing for which it is sent, it reaps a harvest of souls, whether or not we understand God’s planting strategy. Ours is to stop being backseat drivers in his tractor and get on with it.
+In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.